The Parlor City Boys

by Arno B. Zimmer

  Peterson smiled sheepishly but Meacham, in no mood to help him along, just stared back with his best menacing look. Peterson took off his cap and nervously squeezed it in his hands as he began, “Well, Detective, I left out a few things during our last chat which I need to get off my chest and I want you to know I’m a darn sight mad at myself for not being more helpful from the get-go. Mind you, I didn’t lie and I ain’t lying now but, to be honest, I had the fear of God battling the fear of some real devils here on earth and the second fear won out for a while.” As Peterson paused, Meacham said calmly but forcefully, “Out with it, Oscar. I don’t have the time or patience for a self-serving summary of your moral qualms. But I can promise you this – if I find out anything you are about to tell me is false or if you omit to tell me something I should know, you will have more immediate things to fear than either God or the devil. Do we understand each other?” Peterson nodded and Meacham, switching to a soothing tone, said “now tell me about these devils, Oscar.”

  Peterson swallowed hard and said “Yes Sir” in his most obsequious manner before proceeding. “The day I found DePue lying near the fence, I also saw Mr. Carver and Burt Grimsley helping Mike DeLong into a car. Couldn’t tell for sure at the time but Delong was either dead drunk or dead period. Now I don’t know much about Mr. Carver but that gum-beater Burt Grimsley is one evil character, Detective. He’s got pure devil in him. Yes, sir, I can tell lots of stories about Mr. Grimsley and his Friday morning torture sessions up at the Institute but I guess you don’t have time for that now.” “I do have time, Oscar, but tell me first, did you ever see Mike DeLong drinking with any of the patients?” “No sir”, replied Oscar. “And that would include DePue?” “Yes sir.”

  Peterson went on to describe DePue’s special mail delivery request. All he could recall was that a letter went to someone in Boston and DePue got a response back a short time later.

  Meacham pondered the growing Boston connection and then motioned for Oscar to continue. After listening to a description of the rituals overseen by Grimsley, he thought about the comments made by Gwen Braun. By god, he thought, that place needs to be cleaned up or shut down.

  Peterson went on to describe what he called Grimsley’s “slave labor” racket whereby he designated certain patients to work in the laundry and the kitchen. When Meacham looked puzzled, Peterson explained that Grimsley got cash from the managers of those units for supplying free labor.

  Meacham called someone in to take Peterson’s statement. Before heading out the door, he briefed Whipple on the Peterson interview but decided to let Hawkins stew for a while.

  ***

  Burt Grimsley was an ex-Marine who never let anyone forget it. Square-jawed and brawny, he worked the image hard right down to the tight tee shirt with the pack of Lucky Strikes tucked into his rolled up left sleeve. When he wasn’t in a bar itching to pick a fight for little or no provocation, he vented at the local speedway on “wreck-em-race” weekends when the drivers could ram each other with impunity.

  Grimsley hadn’t yet plumbed the depths of depravity but there was no reason to think he wouldn’t, given the opportunity. Anyone who operated within his sphere who wasn’t deferential was a potential target for his hair trigger temper. He had acolytes up at the Institute – just as he did in the Marines – and would have molded the Clintock boys to his purposes had he got to them before Rudy did. As he saw it, what he did at the Institute was child’s play, an amusement to which he hardly gave a second thought after he left work.

  When Hawkins called him into his office one day, he assumed it was because of a complaint over a random beating. Instead, he was introduced to Reginald Carver – after which Hawkins conveniently left them alone.

  Thirty minutes later, Grimsley left the office, grinning smugly to no one in particular. Reginald Carver had just made his day.

  ***

  Meacham vaguely remembered Burt Grimsley from high school, where they had played on the football team together. What he did recall was a bully with a perpetual smirk on his face who even instigated fights with his own teammates.

  Grimsley lived in a slate grey ranch on a barren dead-end street. The property was encased in a chain link fence and twin slobbering Dobermans were attacking it as Meacham pulled into the driveway. The hood was up on the car in front of him and Meacham saw the bottom half of a body leaning in with a can of beer poised next to it.

  Meacham leaned on his horn and watched as the body jerked up, hitting the inside of the hood with a loud thud as the beer can went flying. As Meacham exited his car, he smiled as a beet-red Burt Grimsley faced him in a football-style crouch as if waiting for the whistle to blow.

  Playing dumb, Meacham blithely asked, “Hey, sorry to bother you but I’m Det. Meacham looking for Burt Grimsley.”

  Meacham’s calm demeanor enraged Grimsley to the point of apoplexy but, at the same time, he had enough sense to know when not to lose control. If nothing else, the Marines had taught him the value of timely restraint when outranked.

  “Hey, Grimsley, didn’t recognize you at first – boy have you bulked up since high school. Say, I need to talk to you about a little problem up at the Institute. Some people are telling me that you might be of help.”

  As Meacham slowly approached, the dogs continued to bark ferociously behind the fence until Grimsley flashed a signal which silenced them. Still fuming from Meacham’s prank, he didn’t stop to think before blurting out “what in sam hill you talking about? I ain’t done nothing illegal.”

  Meacham continued to smile and said, “Well Burt, who said anything about illegal? I have some folks giving statements about some pretty unsavory activities up at the Institute that might involve you. All we need to do is get your version of events and then figure out who is telling the truth.”

  Grimsley was flummoxed and tried to talk but all that came out was a jumble of “ers” and “uhs”. The perpetual smile on Meacham’s face had left him tongue-tied – until he finally blurted out “I need to talk to my lawyer”.

  Grimsley’s stuttering performance only made Meacham grin more broadly and before walking back to his car, he advised Burt to be at the station Monday morning – with or without his lawyer. As Grimsley watched, Meacham decided that a parting shot was in order. “Oh, Burt, don’t bother trying to reach Carver. He left town with the blonde yesterday – seemed to be in a hurry.”

  As Meacham drove away, he looked in the rear view mirror to see Grimsley frozen in place.

  ***

  After leaving Grimsley, Meacham chuckled to himself but knew that so far he had little on him other that Peterson’s statement that he had helped load the inebriated Mike DeLong into a car and that he had treated some patients roughly. What he really needed was a direct connection to the death of Randall DePue since the coroner’s report was unlikely to show anything conclusive other than accidental death by self-inflicted choking. Unless or until Carver and the girl were found and brought back to Parlor City, Meacham’s best hope was that Hawkins had a desire for revenge against Carver which just might help him break Grimsley in the process.

  ***

  Grimsley continued to stare as Meacham’s car disappeared around the corner. Of course, he didn’t have a lawyer and he had no idea how to get in touch with Carver – even if Meacham was lying and he was still in Parlor City. Should he go to see Hawkins?

  Then, he remembered that one of his bar pals from Crater’s had bragged about how this “shyster lawyer” saved him from jail time on a hit & run deal. Grimsley slammed down the hood and headed downtown.

  ***

  The maid at Hawkins house was of no help and Grimsley detected a sneer on her face when she brushed him off. Showing unusual restraint twice in the same day, he turned away from the house and drove straight to Crater’s.

  ***

  When Meacham got back to the station, Whipple told him that Hawkins was anxious to talk to him – and only him. He also learned that Mildred Crimmons had called three times, ask
ing if there was any clue as to Stella’s whereabouts. Meacham suspected that she was equally if not more concerned about the man in the picture with her niece but, whatever the case, he was annoyed by this additional distraction. Whipple offered to run interference with the aunt and Meacham readily accepted.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hawkins was huddled with his lawyer when Meacham walked into the interview room.

  “You know you can’t hold my client, Detective, and any harassment will be dealt with severely,” intoned the lawyer. “Right”, said Meacham sarcastically as he turned to Hawkins and was struck by the sad smile and distant stare. Adjusting his voice, Meacham politely asked if he wanted to be guided by lawyerly advice or would rather just sit and chat man to man.

  Hawkins looked at Meacham and then at his lawyer while slowly stroking his mustache. Then, without his usual acerbic edge, he said softly but with determination “You can run along, Wilbur. Detective Meacham and I are going to have a conversation that doesn’t warrant your learned counsel.” The lawyer started to object but Hawkins waived him off perfunctorily.

  “Detective, before our conversation diverges onto other and what you indubitably consider more germane topics, I need to say a few things that may surprise you. First, I respect the way you have conducted yourself and must confess that I misjudged your character. Secondly, I implied wrongly, more than once, that I was in possession of information disparaging to your father’s reputation. That was misleading at best and you will soon learn why that tactic was employed by my associates and me. I guess I am apologizing and getting a bothersome foible off my chest – not really sure why, to be honest.

  “As to the recent rush of events at the Institute, it is a tangled skein that will take some effort to unravel but I am convinced you are up to the task. What I will tell you before I leave is that it all started in Boston last year. Now, unless you have cause to detain me further at this time, I should like to go home and be with my wife”.

  Meacham didn’t know quite what to make of this latest Hawkins’ performance – if that was what it was. It certainly wasn’t a confession, in the legal sense, of any wrong-doing, but the regret seemed almost genuine. Until all the interviews were completed and the box that Hawkins removed from his office had been examined, Meacham had no cause to retain him.

  “OK, Frederick, someone will drive you home where you will need to stay for now. If you prefer, I am willing to continue our interview at your house tomorrow rather than ask you to come down to the station.”

  “Any time after church will be fine, Detective. That is one obligation to my wife that I do not neglect.” Both men nodded assent and Meacham called in Whipple to arrange a ride for Hawkins.

  Meacham sat at his desk pondering this latest colloquy with Hawkins. There had been a change but was it only temporary, perhaps even a ploy? Meacham has seen remorse fade away quickly in many criminal cases once the novelty of “coming clean” had worn off and the reality of pending prison time had set in.

  Well, he would make sure that Hawkins’ house was watched tonight. If he tried to leave town again, Meacham would have his answer.

  ***

  Zygmont Nagle, known as “Ziggy” to his buddies, sat on a stool at Crater’s sipping a bear when he saw Burt Grimsley enter the bar. Grimsley gave him a rough cuff on the shoulder which caused Ziggy to spill beer down his front. Grimsley laughed as if both of them thought it was amusing.

  Ziggy growled under his breath and said “You’re looking mighty serious, Grim. What kind of shit have you got yourself into?” Grimsley hated the idea of sharing any personal information that revealed vulnerability but felt like he had no choice but to tell Ziggy at least the bare minimum. When he asked about the lawyer, he learned that Ziggy paid a $1000 retainer just to get a meeting. Grimsley exploded off his stool as if Ziggy was somehow involved in trying to shake him down.

  “Hey, Grim, take it easy. You come to me for help and act like I’m your enemy. Hell, when it was all said and done, my old man shelled out over $3000 to that old kike – but he did get me off. If you are in serious trouble, you gotta pay the man!”

  Grimsley tried half-heartedly to apologize for his outburst but Ziggy had already turned back to the bar and was studying the bottom of his beer glass. Grimsley threw a few bills on the bar and yelled at the bartender to take care of his friend. Ziggy never turned around but dismissively waived his arm in mock thanks as Grimsley walked away.

  Standing outside Crater’s, Grimsley knew he could scrounge up a thousand but it didn’t sound like that would be nearly enough. Without Carver to bail him out, he had nowhere to turn. He would just have to tough it out with Meacham and might even admit to the incident with DeLong but nothing else. At the moment, he wished he could go up to the Institute to relieve some of the frustration and rage he felt building up inside.

  ***

  Whipple stopped by Meacham’s desk on his way out for the evening to inform him that Mildred Crimmons seemed placated for now but appeared determined to stay in Parlor City indefinitely. Meacham shrugged and laughed before saying, “Thanks, Whip. She should probably be a welcome distraction at this point. Hey, I’m going to Hawkins’ house tomorrow for a detailed talk. Will keep you posted”

  That evening, Meacham phoned Big Red at the last minute and she acted like she was expecting his call. Meacham knew for sure now that the relationship would never advance beyond its casual nature but wondered for the first time if she accepted it as well . She never made any demands and he assumed she dated other men but had never asked. It felt strange, as if she might be using him, and that made him slightly uncomfortable. Big Red was certainly an unusual girl for old-fashioned Parlor City.

  ***

  SUNDAY, JULY 17, 1955

  Meacham decided to “test” Hawkins veracity and attend the 10:00 o’clock service at the North Side Congregational Church. If Hawkins showed up with his wife, Meacham would have some hope that a confession of sorts might be forthcoming later in the day.

  Meacham arrived early and parked in the back of the lot, hoping to be inconspicuous as he watched the worshipers stream in. When he saw Gwen, with Woody and Jerry Kosinsky in tow, he perked up. He decided to position himself in a pew behind her and at an angle for optimal viewing. It would certainly help minimize the tedium of the sermon.

  As the bells chimed their final warning, Meacham saw Hawkins’ car pull into the parking lot. Mrs. Hawkins slowly emerged from the passenger seat and Hawkins appeared very solicitous as she leaned on his arm and he slowly guided her into the church.

  Meacham had to admit that Alex Carmichael was an accomplished, even eloquent speaker. He adroitly mixed in humorous anecdotes with biblical passages that, as laughter periodically erupted, kept even the elderly parishioners from dozing off for long. He was certainly not the awkward oaf in the loud outfit that Meacham observed at the Pig & Whistle. He looked over at Gwen and tried to imagine that she would be attracted to a man like Carmichael and the lifestyle of a minister’s wife. How does one handle this kind of competition, he asked himself?

  After the final hymn, there was congestion at the exit as most of the congregation funneled to the door where Carmichael was standing, waiting to shake hands. It was a useful ritual in that the minister could look on his flock with benevolence and the congregants could ensure that their attendance was duly noted.

  Meacham retreated to a pillar near the back of the nave but caught Gwen’s eye as she moved with the crowd toward the door. She had a surprised smile on her face as if to say “so, when did you get religion, Billy?”

  Meacham smiled back and then saw Hawkins approaching with his wife. “Checking up on me, Detective? Well, it doesn’t matter. Come by around 1:00 if that is convenient.” Meacham nodded his assent and the couple walked slowly away. When Meacham turned back, Gwen and the boys were gone.

  Before pulling out of the parking lot, Meacham put the top down and sat in his car thinking about his next confrontation with Hawkins just
a few hours away when he heard “Hi there, Billy” and looked up to see Big Red approaching.

  Unabashed by the customary solemnity of Sunday morning in church, she was outfitted in a tightly fitted print summer dress with a deeply revealing front. As she leaned over into Meacham’s car with a seductive smile on her face, he looked past her to see Gwen drive by with the boys. While they gawked at Big Red, Gwen looked straight ahead.

  Big Red turned and saw where Meacham’s eyes were riveted. She also noticed the two boys with their faces pasted to the back window of the car and let out a deep-throated laugh. When she turned back to Meacham, her smile had turned devilish and her eyes had narrowed. “Enjoy yourself last night, Billy?” she asked before sashaying away without waiting for a reply.

  Before driving off, Meacham decided he would think twice before going to church again.

  ***

  When Meacham arrived at the Hawkins’ house, he was still smarting from his rare appearance at church. He almost convinced himself that Big Red has set him up – hanging into his car just as Gwen drove by. But could she really be that cunning and conniving or was he that incredibly naïve about the complex machinations of women? Whatever the case, he needed to make a decision soon about his social priorities and he knew now that a clean break with Big Red was a step in the right direction – regardless of any future he might have with Gwen.

  Hawkins’ maid answered the door bell and guided him silently into the den. Before leaving, she said “Mrs. Hawkins would like to speak with you first and will be with you shortly.” Meacham was taken by surprise but said nothing.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Hawkins walked slowly into the room, the maid having guided her to the door. “Please sit down over there, Detective Meacham,” she said in a quiet, steady voice, pointing to an easy chair by the fireplace.